


Friendship is Demonic Magic

by Shadow0kana, whtbout2ndbrkfst



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Coffee Shops, Crowley & Anathema Device Friendship, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), drunk anathema (good omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28877301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow0kana/pseuds/Shadow0kana, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whtbout2ndbrkfst/pseuds/whtbout2ndbrkfst
Summary: After Crowley interrupts Aziraphale and Anathema’s phone conversations one too many times, Aziraphale suggests the two have their own meetups to discuss what they have in common. Cue monthly coffee dates between a witch and a demon who can passionately discuss (debate) anything from Halloween to Astronomy to Hamlet… while also conspiring to form a book swap aimed at getting Aziraphale to read anything written after 1950.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 60
Collections: AJ Squared, AJ’s personal faves, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Crowley interrupts one of Anathema and Aziraphale’s calls, it’s completely happenstance. He’s visiting the bookshop, sprawled across the couch, playing on his phone while Aziraphale pretends to be working. He isn’t eavesdropping per say, but the shop is empty of customers and Crowley can’t help but catch snippets of their conversation. And while Crowley is typically happy to listen to Aziraphale prattle on about most anything, he will not stand for blatantly incorrect information being passed on to a new generation. 

So when Anathema starts talking about her paper on this history of theatre, and Crowley overhears Aziraphale insinuating that the Greeks were the sole founders of modern theatre, he can’t help but interject with his own memories of Indian Sanskrit theatre that happened centuries earlier. One thing leads to another and somehow 40 minutes later he finds himself with Aziraphale’s phone in hand pacing up and down the shop floor while detailing theatrical history from India to Greece to Egypt with Anathema diligently taking notes on the other end of the line.

The second time Crowley commandeers a conversation is innocent as well - the Aziraphale and Anathema are facetiming and Crowley leans over Aziraphale’s shoulder to ask if Newt has finished watching the Good Place yet. In doing so, he immediately gets distracted by Anathema’s new nail color and the two of them have once again delved into a long-winded conversation all their own before Aziraphale reminds them he was the one to set up this phone time. Crowley blushes and hands the phone back.

As the months after Armageddon’t pass, Crowley finds himself at Aziraphale’s place more often and interrupts Aziraphale’s calls with Anathema on a regular basis. It certainly isn’t through any specified intent of his own, and he would never admit that he finds the witch fascinating, but the simple fact of the matter is the two have a lot of shared interests to talk about.

One evening, as Crowley interrupts yet another conversation - this one about the benefits of different herbs for diffusing stress - to offer up his gardening tips, Aziraphale lets out an exasperated huff. “My dear, if you have so much to say to Anathema, why don’t you call her yourself?”

Crowley blushes and hands the phone back sheepishly, “Sorry, angel.”

“No , no, I’m not upset,” Aziraphale assures him, “I just see how well you get on and think it’d benefit you both if you set aside some time to catch up on all your common interests.”

Crowley makes a noncommittal hum.

“What?”

“I hate the phone.”

Aziraphale stares at him blankly for a moment and then laughs, “You’re the only reason *I* have a phone.”

Crowley waves a hand around noncommittally and makes a sound that sounds roughly like “ngk” and Aziraphale takes to mean “Yes, you are technically correct, but that’s so I can talk to you. The idea of picking up a telephone and calling a human, one whom I would never actually admit is a *friend* is out of my comfort zone and I would never be so inclined to admit that it’s something I would enjoy”. Aziraphale, who has been decoding the minutiae of Crowley sounds and hand gestures for the last 6 millenia is thankfully able to understand the gist of it. He takes this all in in a moment, shakes his head fondly, and suggests instead that the two meetup next Sunday for coffee at the small coffee shop Crowley likes while Aziraphale does his monthly book bargaining. Before Crowley can turn down the suggestion, Anathema has already accepted. 

**OCTOBER**

When Sunday rolls around, Crowley momentarily considers cancelling, but he knows it’ll disappoint Aziraphale, and Crowley is loath to disappoint the angel. So, when Anathema walks into the coffeeshop where they’d agreed to meet up, Crowley is already nursing a black coffee. 

“Thanks for waiting,” she says sarcastically while pulling out the chair opposite and making herself comfortable. In doing so, she plops a heavy brown leather satchel down next to her.

“You’re the one who picked this god-awful time of the morning,” he retorts, leaning down to inhale the steam from the coffee lest any of the caffeine escape that way.

“It’s 9am.”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t need to sleep,” she points out.

Crowley doesn’t deem this worthy of response. He swirls what’s left of his drink, downs it, and stands up to get another, but leans against the table to ask, “What you want?”

Anathema takes a second to study the menu and settles on an iced matcha with cinnamon. Crowley’s face twists into something that conveys his disgust, but chooses not to comment. He makes his way over to the counter and returns a few minutes later with their drinks. In the few minutes it took him to place and receive their order, she has stacked three books between them.

“Wot’s this?” he says, lifting the first book to inspect the cover.

“These are books,” Anathema says simply. ”And they’re for Aziraphale.” She sounds pleased with herself.

Crowley squints at the titles - _The Hate U Give, Kindred_ , and _Americanah_ \- and raises an eyebrow. “He ask for these?”

Anathema sighs, “no.”

Crowley stares; waits for an explanation.

“He hasn’t read anything written in the last half century!” she says, throwing up her hands.

“And you want to combat that?”

“He always wants to talk books this and fiction that, but his reading materials are so outdated. Do you know how frustrating that is? He calls up on some random Tuesday and just expects that I've read Chaucer, but he hasn't read anything written in my lifetime. These are Good books. By Amazing authors. Discussing Important themes.” She stresses each point, and Crowley nods along as she works herself up.

He can't help himself though, “They’re not first editions.”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “I’m not asking him to file them in a place of honor in his library - 

“Bookshop”

“ - Bookshop. I’m just lending them cause I think he’ll like them.” 

Crowley looks again between the books and the witch sitting across from him, but makes no move to accept them.

“It’s not like it’ll take him that long to read them,” she argues. A pause, “He needs something to do while you’re sleeping the night and half the morning away.”

A valid point. An occupied angel is a content angel and Crowley does so love sleeping at the bookshop. Crowley looks over the titles again. Some of them sound vaguely familiar and they all look promising. He slides them off the table and into a carry bag that didn’t exist seconds ago. “Honestly, I think you’re giving him a bit too much credit.”

Now it’s Anathema’s turn to raise a questioning eyebrow.

“I’m not sure he’s read anything new since Bronte.”

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Books securely in Crowley’s possession, Anathema settles in and takes the first sip of her matcha. Not entirely sure exactly what to talk about in her first meeting with the 6,000 year old demonic being in front of her, she casts around for a topic of conversation. Her eyes land on the crudely rendered devil figurine serving cupcakes in the corner, and she snorts, tilting her head to get Crowley to look at it. “Nothing like turning the Lord of Hell into a cutesy Halloween decoration, eh?” 

Crowley snorts into his coffee, “People are stupid.”

“Well….”

“No, they are,” he insists, looking up from his coffee “No idea what they’re talking about half the time and insist they got it all figured out,” he starts. Anathema can’t argue with him there so she just nods. He takes it as permission to continue. “Demons don’t look like that. Never have. The hooves? That was Pan. The horns? Osirus. The pitchfork? Poseidon! And why is he always red? Is that supposed to be fire? Anger?” He counts off his points on his fingers. “It makes no sense! It’s like they just took a random bunch of characteristics and mashed them all together.”

“Well at least they were creative with their use of motifs. I thought you went in for that sort of thing.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not when it doesn’t make sense.” He casts around for a way to explain himself. Looks hard at Anathema. “He’s a fallen angel, right? Like people got that part right.” Anathema nods. “So, why’d they start making him all beast-like for scary stories?”

“Some demons are beast-like though, aren’t - “ Anathema tries to interrupt, remembering the other demon who’d showed up at the airbase that day.

But Crowley just keeps plowing on, oblivious to the fact that his companion had anything to add, “It’s like humans, yeah, they said he’s evil, well he must be hideous, nd then they left it up to the artists, yeah? This one adds hooves. This one adds flames. This one adds horns. And rather than looking at it as art, people are just like ‘yeah, that makes sense’.

“So we end up with some sort of evil red goat man-beast,” Anathema concludes. “Cause it’s easier to think of Satan as a beast with fangs and claws and horns rather than a GQ model who might whisper temptations in your ear.”

“Exactly. Humans are simple. Their minds vapid. How do you live like this?” Crowley ponders, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’s bad so it’s ugly.” He parrots, making fun of humanity. “How quaint. And it’s not just Satan! Halloween is the perfect example of this: Ghosts. Zombies. Skeletons. Witches! They’re all just humans, really.” Then, as an afterthought, “Some are just more dead than others.”

Choosing to ignore for the moment the horrifying implication that zombies might be real, Anathema latches on to Crowley’s annoyance, letting it fuel her own. “Right! Like I’m a witch. You don’t see my skin turning green, or my nails rotting, or my teeth falling out. I still take showers.”

“Right. That’s my point!” Crowley says, fully engaged now, “It’s like humans don’t know how to be scared of it if it looks like them.”

Anathema nods in agreement. “That’s how you get dictators,” she interjects.

“And serial killers,” Crowley adds.

“The mafia.”

“Gangs.”

“Lawyers.”

“Car salesmen.”

“Parliamentary leaders.”

“Dolphin trainers.”

“Lobbyis- Wait. What? Dolphin trainers?” She asks incredulously.

Crowley just frowns and nods, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you”. 

Anathema opens her mouth to protest the topic dismissal, but Crowley is already plowing ahead, “Don’t mind the chocolate though.”

“What?” Anathema says again, lost by the non sequitur. She’s been saying that a lot this morning.

“Halloween. Humans. Stupid, sure, but there’s chocolate. Can’t complain about that.”

“Oh yes, I suppose,” she rubs her temple while allowing Crowley to change the topic again. A conversation with him can be exhausting, and she's gaining a new respect for how Aziraphale does it. “The chocolate is quite good,” she concedes, “and the ‘haunted houses’.” she uses air quotes while she speaks to show what nonsense she believes that to be. 

“Oh! Big haunted house fan me,” he agrees, calmer now. He picks up his coffee again; it seems to be full and steaming again despite the fact Anathema knows he’s been drinking it steadily since their debate started. She frowns at his drink, but doesn’t say anything, but he must notice the unasked question because when she looks down at her own cup a second later, it’s refilled itself. She covers her shock with a small cough, takes a sip. “Thanks.” 

He waves her off. 

“Oh! and horror films!” Anathema adds eyes lighting up as she brings them back to the topic at hand.

“Prefer Hocus Pocus myself.”

Anathema laughs, of course he does. “And Nightmare Before Christmas?” she adds, thinking how much she can’t wait to get home and see what new movies have been added to Netflix for the holiday.

Crowley nods vigorously. “You,” he says pointing at Anathema, “you get it.”

**** **** **** **** ****

Throughout their conversation about Halloween, All Hallow’s Eve, Samhain, and All Soul’s, their conversation gradually grows louder and more animated, drawing curious and sometimes condescending looks from the other patrons, but whenever an employee got it in mind to suggest that perhaps they could keep it down, they found themselves suddenly busy with an influx of customers. 

One barista swears she overheard the redhead say something about the inherent evils of the Sound of Music, but brushes it off as another one of those conspiracy theories she’ll never understand how people come to believe. 

She can’t miss however, the commotion the pair create when finally leaving the bakery a good 2 ½ hours after first taking their seats. The dark-haired one stands first, gathering up her belongings in her oversized bag, the redhead making no move to follow, instead taking a final swig of coffee that should have been gone ages ago. The woman is almost to the door when the redhead shouts out, “Oi! Book girl!” 

So much for the end of the ruckus. 

The woman turns upon hearing his shout, steps to the side of the door, turns and yells back, “Yeah?”

Curious as to what these two could possibly still have to talk about, the barista leans in, making no effort to hide that she’s listening. The tall lanky one holds up the bag of books exchanged earlier, “If I haveta play go between for your book recs, you gotta take my recs back to to Newt!”

The barista watches the woman sigh in a defeated sort of way and try to weasel her way out of this seemingly not completely unexpected negotiation. “You already agreed; you can’t take it back now,” she tries.

“Demon,” he says simply. The barista blinks, hopes the woman will ask for further clarification. She doesn’t, just says, “Fine. Give it here,” in a faux-defeated way and holds out a hand.

The barista wonders briefly if demon is some sort of code word or a reference to a past debt not yet cashed in. 

The taller one snaps and, if you were to ask the barista, a piece of paper just appears in his hand out of nowhere before handing it over with a shit eating grins and saying “Enjoy!”. The barista looks to the woman for confirmation of what she just saw, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed anything strange. She looks to her coworkers to see if they saw anything and, of course, they’re all helping customers or buried deep in gossip at the other end of the counter. She shakes her head and sighs. Oh well; still not the weirdest customer she’s ever had, and at least they tipped well.

**NOVEMBER**

When they meet up in the same coffee shop a month later, Anathema plops this month's book recommendations for Aziraphale in front of Crowley without preamble. The angel has turned out to be an amazing book reading partner since he often finishes a novel in a night and has thousands of years of insight to draw on. The two have had some wonderful drawn out conversations these past few weeks, and she is already looking forward to discussing her new selections. This month's picks include _This is How it Always Is, ESL Or You Weren’t Here_ , and _Middlesex_. She’s interested in getting his opinion on humanity's long and varied relationship with the gender binary. 

Crowley must have been expecting more books because he doesn’t bat an eye this time, just sweeps them into his bag and returns the previous month's books to their owner. On top of the returned books is a Post It note with Crowley’s easily identifiable loopy all-cap lettering.

Anathema eyes it wearily. “No no no no no. Last time you got him hooked on that god awful game; we’re not doing it this again.”

“It’s not GOD-awful” Crowley says, folding his arms across his chest, clearly put out, "She had nothing to do with it.”

“Demon-awful? Satan-awful?” she ponders aloud, “Point is, it’s annoying as fuck. He’s addicted to the silly spaceman game and now he has an ongoing rivalry with some 15 year olds in Majorca.”

Crowley laughs out loud, “Alright, alright. No more games. This time it’s just a TV show.”

She sticks her hand out to accept his slip of paper, “The Outer Limits? What is this?”

“Just some sci-fi, kinda like The Twilight Zone, but better”.

“Fine,” she huffs, shoving the Post It note in the side pocket of her floor-length dress, “but it better not give him nightmares or monopolize all his time.” 

Crowley just smiles and changes the topic. “The books you gave me this time. Any theme?”

“Gender conformity and the trans experience.”

“Oh,” says Crowley thoughtfully. “Is that, uh something you have a lot of literary interest in?”

Anathema shrugs, “Not insomuch. I have just been trying to read more books by diverse authors, so trans and nonbinary authors have become a part of that.” 

“Cool. You should read _Disavowels_ by Claude Cahun,” Crowley says.

Anathema tries not to show her surprise, “Books recommendations from _you_?”

Crowley laughs, “Didn’t say I read it did, I? I just liked them: Cool human. Fantastic artist. Interesting perspective on gender. And ended up fighting Nazis with their partner.”

“They sound fascinating,” agrees Anathema. She takes out her phone to make a note of the title and author. “You know I’d be interested in your opinion as well on the topic. I’m sure as a man —” 

“—Man-shaped” Crowley interjects.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Man-shaped,” Crowley repeats, waving a hand down his corporation for emphasis. “I didn’t pick this form any more than you picked yours, and, yes, it's rather comfortable most of the time, and yes, it’s certainly been looked upon favorably for most of the last 6,000 years, but sometimes it gets itchy you know?”

Anathema doesn’t know. She shrugs a shoulder, “Not really. Could you explain that a bit?”

Crowley thinks for a moment before continuing. Anathema takes a sip of her drink to give him time to think. When he’s ready, he says, “Aziraphale and I aren’t men in that we’re not human. We’re ethereal and demonic beings respectively.” Anathema nods to show she’s following. “While on Earth, we’re confined, for the most part, to these human shapes. But our essence doesn’t really have a gender at all. It’s fluid - literally and figuratively.”

“And the body you’re in?”

“I like it sometimes; I hate it sometimes. After the first half century I was sick of it and begging for a change, but now,” he shrugs, “I guess I’m used to it.”

“They wouldn’t let you change it?” she asks incredulously.

“Ah, well, not most known for making their employees comfortable, hell,” Crowley says wistfully. “Was just given this when I popped up in the garden. It looked a little different then, longer hair for one thing, longer nails.” His nails grow out into claws as he holds out his hands for her inspection. 

Unperturbed, she reaches out and runs a finger along them intrigued. “And you can’t just, i dunno, change it? Your form, I mean. Don’t you have demonic powers or whatever?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not really. Corporations don’t follow the laws of physics since they’re gifts from our respective sides. Ironically, I can make approximately the same changes a human can, though I can do it on demand - hair length and style, makeup, nail polish, clothing, the usual, but the parts and the functions are beyond my control.”

“I’m sorry” she says seriously, “That sounds frustrating.”

“It is and it isn’t. And like I said,” he shrugs, “Used to it now.”

He sounds a little uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken so she decides to let it drop, or at least bring it back around to something less serious. “I bet you look amazing in a dress. And makeup.”

Crowley laughs in spite of himself and gives her conspiratorial look, “Sinful, you might say.”

Anathema laughs right back. “Clothing designed for females has its drawbacks though - weird sizing, thinner fabrics that don’t hold up to wear, and don’t get me started on bras.”

Crowley winces slightly - he’ll never live it down if he admits he might have had something to do with bra sizing a few decades ago - but he has to admit what humans have done with women’s clothing sizing and design is well beyond anything he could have come up with. “And pockets,” he commiserates. 

Anathema agrees immediately, “Oh god, don’t get me started on pockets … Not that yours are any better though.”

“My choice,” Crowley says simply as if that makes all the difference. 

Anathema has to concede that it does. “Valid.” 

The conversation comes to a natural pause as Anathema takes a moment to digest all that she just learned. She has one more question. “Is it the same for Aziraphale?” she asks. 

“Yes and no. He can’t make changes on a whim either, but he did pick his corporation. Heaven lets you do that apparently. And they do let you change them as well if you get discorporated and need a new one. Michael did that - came to Earth for some holy battle or another and fell in love with the female form, went back upstairs and, well, you saw her at Armageddon.”

She nods, she remembers the archangel well. “Has Aziraphale ever changed his then? I can’t imagine him in another body.”

“He hasn’t,” Crowley shakes his head, “Aziraphale loves his form. The original designers were a bit surprised by his choices; had something completely different picked out for him. And Gabriel gives him a hard time for it of course; wants him to look more like a warrior, the wanker.”

“I can’t imagine him as a warrior at all.”

“Well, don’t let the corporation fool you. Underneath that skinsuit he’s a lean, mean fighting machine. He was created by God to be a protector and a fighter.” He downs his coffee before refilling it absentmindedly. 

Anathema shivers, “Must you call it a skinsuit.”

“Why not? That’s what it is!”

“It’s gross,” she protests.

Crowley just snorts and shakes his head. “Gross or not, the fact stands that Aziraphale could certainly take me out in a fight.” He adds this almost wistfully, leaving no doubt in Anathema’s mind that this is the exact opposite of a problem for Crowley.

The rest of their coffee date passes relatively quickly - The demon and the human easily chatting, moving from astronomy to horror films to Crowley’s plants to Anathema’s new freedom from prophesy, both quite happy to go on tangents about historical figures Crowleys not entirely certain if he met (or maybe it was Aziraphale and he just heard the stories?). It seems like no time at all, and for Crowley it really isn’t, before Anathema is excusing herself to meet up with Newt and his family for lunch. 

The two stand, grab their respective books, and head out. 

“Crowley,” Anathema says as the two are about to part ways. “I really think you’d look good in this lipstick color if you’re ever feeling it.” She digs into her bag and hands him the small black tube.

The gesture means more than Crowley would ever willingly admit aloud. “nglsphk,” he manages, and shoves it into a skin tight pocket.

She smiles, “And maybe miracle yourself some bigger pockets!”

Crowley turns to walk away, but not before giving her a two fingered salute. 

**DECEMBER**

When Anathema walks into their designated bakery on the 20th of December, it takes her a moment to find Crowley. Instead of their usual table, he’s grabbed a seat in the back corner near the bar. He doesn’t seem to have ordered coffee yet either which is unusual for the demon. She offers a quick wave which he ignores, so she swings by the counter to grab drinks for both of them before walking over to join him. “Aziraphale mentioned he really liked the poetry,” Anathema says carefully, not quite sure what to make of the recalcitrant demon; she places this month’s book selections down in front of him; each a collection by one of her favorite female poets ( _Honeybee_ by Naomi Shihab Nye, _Wild Embers_ by Nikita Gill, and _A Thousand Mornings_ by Mary Oliver).

Crowley grunts. “Course he did.”

“So this is three of my favorite books of poetry.”

“K.” He hasn’t even looked at the titles.

It’s clear he’s distracted by something, so Anathema attempts to go a different route. “Planets are doing some cool shit this month,” she offers instead, to see if his foul mood and short answers are poetry related. Given his grunt that stands in for a response, she can intuit that it runs much deeper than that. She pulls the chair out from the table and sits down with a sigh. Figuring the best way to address the mood is by continuing on as if she hasn’t noticed, she plows on about the Jupiter and Saturn conjunction, hoping he’ll eventually chime in. 

“The two biggest worlds in our solar system are going to line up tomorrow.”

“The last conjunction was 20 years ago, and the next one where they’ll be this large and this visible isn’t until 2080. I’ll be an old woman then.” 

“And it’s on the winter solstice.”

“Or, I guess we should call it Saturnalia this year, given the timing and all,” she muses, quite willing to continue the one sided conversation for a bit longer. 

“People are calling it the Christmas star though; seems a bit rude to be honest.”

That at least earns her a grunt. Humans who misinterpret astrology are one of his biggest pet peeves, and although he respects the madness of twisting religion and history to fit a personal agenda, even he has to admit when humanity has gone too far. 

“Nice of whoever designed those planets to insure they’d line up for the birth of Christ,” she goads.

“That was NOT the intention!”, he finally explodes. “First of all, first of all, no one in heaven knew the kid was even going to be born, right?. Humans were a mere fragment of God's imagination, so, so... “ he trails off for a moment before finding his train of thought, “SO, the idea that they would disobey Her and need redemption wasn’t on the schedule.”

She smirks, pleased with herself for pulling an outburst out of him; this is the demon she knows and loves.

“Oh, and the kid was born a few decades late.” he adds as an afterthought.

“Really?” she asks, genuinely intrigued.

“Oh yeah, the first broad Gabriel showed up to shit her pants and denied him when he started spouting nonsense about immaculate conception and what not... Took them a few decades to find another suitable woman.”

“Huh. I mean, makes sense. I’d do the same.”

Crowley nods. The short moment of levity is gone, and he’s back to frowning into his cup of coffee and giving monosyllabic answers.

After a few minutes, Anathema leans back in her seat. “Alright. I give in. Who pissed in your cheerios this morning, you grumpy old sod?”

“I’m not grumpy.”

Anathema just raises an eyebrow.

He sighs. “Hamlet is playing at the Globe again, and Aziraphale wants to go. Again.”

She frowns, not sure why this is causing the pout of the century. “And this is a problem, why?”

“I loathe Hamlet.” He snaps.

Anathema gasps, offended. “You take that back!”

Crowley groans for the second time in as many minutes. “Not you too. It wasn’t even that good when we saw it the first time with Willy Shakespeare himself as ghost of King Hamlet.”

Distracted for the moment from Crowley’s pity party and sour mood, Anathema lets out an excited squee. “You MET WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE??,” she says in voice far too loud for a quiet Sunday morning. 

Resigned, Crowley intones, “I did.”

“What was he like?”

“Eh…”

“No, come _on_ Crowley!”

“I dunno, human? Pretentious? Talked a lot. Could be funny when he wanted to. Didn’t look like that portrait everyone seems to like passing around.”

“I can’t believe you saw Hamlet at the Globe," she says again, still stuck on this simple detail.

“Not that big of an accomplishment. You can still see Hamlet at the Globe.” 

“Yeah, but not with Shakespeare!” 

“He’s a much better playwright than actor… Wait, is Hamlet your favorite?” Crowley asks incredulously. He understands an affinity for the bard himself, but Hamlet?

“Yes, obviously,” Anathema counters, “Why, what’s yours?” Before Crowley can respond she adds, “Keep in mind there’s no right answer but there _are_ wrong answers.”

“Wrong answers? How can there be a wrong answer?”

“Titus Andronicus” Anathema says simply.

Crowley can’t actually argue with that.

“Romeo and Juliet is just cliche," she ads.

He concedes she has a point. “The Tempest. If I had to pick one.”

“Ooo Good choice!” 

“I’m aware. Why Hamlet?”

Anathema’s eyes light up, “Because it’s so beautiful and tragic. Hamlet’s struggle with identity and mental illness; Horatio’s unrelenting quest to support him. Polonius’ still incredibly relevant fatherly advice. The ingenuity of a play within a play! The betrayal! “Alas, Poor Yurick, I knew him.” Hamlet is easily the most morally complex and well-rounded character Shakespeare has written,” she trails off. “Oh Crowley, it has everything!”

“You’re very passionate, I’ll give you that.”

“Ugh! You’re hopeless. Fine if you hate Hamlet that much, and Aziraphale wants to go, I’ll go with him and you can spend the night in your flat menacing your plants or whatever it is you do for fun when I’m not around.” Anathema sits back in her chair, satisfied with her solution and pleased that she’ll finally be able to see Hamlet in the Globe.

Crowley however, feels differently, “no.”

“What do you mean ‘no’? You don’t want to go. I do. Problem solved.”

Crowley blushes, looks down at his coffee, “IwannaaskAzirfelasadate.”

“Come again?”

Crowley blushes again, turning quite an amusing shade of scarlet. “I want to ask Aziraphale to go as a date!,” he spits out, slamming a hand down on the table.

Anathema blinks, opens her mouth, closes it. She stares hard at the demon across from her. “Crowley,” she starts cautiously, unsure how to word this. She decides straightforward and blunt is best. “Crowley, you and Aziraphale are already dating.”

He scowls, “No we’re not.”

Anathema takes in Crowley’s embarrassment and comes at it from a different angle. “Okay, why don’t you think you’re dating? You see each other at least once a week, don’t you?

“I see him almost every day, but that doesn’t mean anything."

Anathema hums noncommittally, “And you talk about things, yeah? Places you’ve been, people you’ve met? Things you both enjoy.”

“Of course we do! _We_ do that Anathema,” Crowley says gesturing between the two of them.

Anathema nods, but keeps pressing forward, “And you do kind things for each other? I know you went all the way to Cardiff last month to pick up that breakfast cake he likes - 

“-bara brith” Crowley murmurs. 

“- And I know for a fact he spent ages tracking down that scotch for you.”

“-For us” amends Crowley.

“That’s my point!” Anathema exclaims, “You do things for each other and it makes both of you happy.”

“So?”

“So? So?” she sputters, “So it means you’re dating, you absolute _buffoon_!” She leans forward and places both hands on the table as she makes her point.

“I think I’d know,” Crowley says, leaning, if possible, even further away from her and the points she's making. He folds his arms around himself in a protective manner. 

She snorts. “Apparently not.”

When Crowley doesn't respond, Anathema blows out an exasperated breath. “He calls you ‘my dear’.”

“He calls everyone 'dear',” Crowley instantly dismisses her point.

“Yes, but you’re “MY dear’”.

“Semantics,” Crowley insists.

“He, he, he _kisses_ you!” she sputters, “I’ve seen him - The back of your hand, and on the forehead when you're both on the couch, or, or on the cheek! He even plants them in your hair when he thinks no one is looking!"

Crowley just shakes his head miserably, “It doesn’t mean the same to him. He’s old fashioned. It’s just polite.”

“Just polite,” Anathema echos back at a complete loss. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?” 

She feels unmoored by the devastating realization that the being in front of her could be so blind to his own romantic relationship. When he doesn’t respond, her annoyance evaporates, and she’s left feeling solemn and sorry for her friend. She places her hands tentatively on the table between them, “Crowley, What would make it “real” for you? What do you want to change?” 

Silence from the other end of the table. 

“Do you want to move in together?”

Crowley shakes his head, “Too soon for that.”

Anathema can’t help herself, she laughs a little. 

“I mean,” emphasizes Crowley, glaring at her, “We aren’t even dating," and he leans back while folding his arms over his chest again as if that makes a point. 

Refusing to give in, she pushes further, “Do you want to have sex with him?”

“Pblst!” Crowley sits up at that one and if it wasn’t such a dire situation it’d be comical how red he turns. “Absolutely not. We don’t… It’s not .. we’re not.. I…”

“Point taken” Anathema interjects, cutting off Crowley’s indignant stuttering. “So you don’t want to sleep with him; you’re not ready to move in with him; and you already go on dates, share intimate moments, and think of each other constantly,” she counts off her points on her fingers. “Crowley, I think you’re misreading something here.”

Crowley refuses to make eye contact. 

“Talk to him.”

Silence from across the table.

“You said you wanted to ask him to Hamlet as a date. I’m just saying do it. Make your intentions as clear as fucking possible. Don’t beat around the bush. Ask him out and make sure he knows that’s what you’re doing. And Crowley, I swear to you, do not come back here next month without having worked this out.” 

Crowley groans. He miracles a shot onto the table - not considering how this will later confuse the barista - and pours it into his coffee.

“I’m serious. Agree to actually talking to your boyfriend -”

“Not my boyfriend.”

“-Or I will text him right now and ask him myself." She pulls out her phone to show how serious this threat is.

“No!” Crowley lunges across the table to grab the phone out of her hands. “Ill, uh, I’ll do it.”

“Promise?”

He downs the rest of his drink before answering, “Promise.”

She pats the back of his hand, “Bet you anything you’re already dating. You’ll see.”


	2. Chapter 2

JANUARY

It’s only two weeks later when they find themselves in the bakery, back in their usual seats. Anathema, for once, is the first to arrive and already has her books and both their coffees set out on the table when he saunters in. He slows as he approaches the table, noticing the intensity in her look. She doesn’t wait for him to sit down before launching into conversation. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

He blushes and distracts himself by pulling out a seat, sitting down, and pulling her book offerings closer to inspect them. 

Anathema pushes on refusing to be ignored, “Did you ask Aziraphale?”

Crowley blushes even deeper. Nods. 

“And?” she demands.

“He thought we were already dating,” he mumbles into his coffee.

She lets out a whoop, causing the rest of the patrons to look their way. “I told you!” She grasps his hand and squeezes it. Forcing herself to calm down she asks, “And you spoke about it?”

Crowley nods again.

“Tell me everything!” She has a hundred more questions - Was Aziraphale embarrassed? Did they go on a date? What’s changed? Are they officially “boyfriends” now? - but isn’t sure which to ask first.

Crowley, if possible, turns an even darker shade of crimson as he runs his fingers intently over the books in front of him. “Ngskt … you know.”

She doesn’t know. “Tell me.”

“I asked. We talked. We moved on.” He crosses his arms over his chest, settling into his favorite slouching position of defiance. 

Anathema accepts she’s not likely to get a ton of additional details out of the demon and decides to drop it for now and harangue Aziraphale about it later. She rolls her eyes and changes gears, “Did you see _Hamlet_?”

“We did,” Crowley responds, thankful for the change of topic.

“And was it miserable?”

Crowley gives a noncommittal shrug, “nyeh… Aziraphale enjoyed it.”

She smiles knowingly, but lets it slide. “Is it still Michelle Terry in the lead role?”

“It is.”

“She any good?”

“Not as good as Gibson.”

“Gibson…?” she trails off, confused, “Wait, Mel Gibson!?”

Crowley nods.

“You take that back!” 

“What? Why?”

“Gibson’s _Hamlet_ is … it’s… it’s… I dunno Crowley, but it’s certainly no Brannagh, or Olivier. It’s not even a Cumberbatch or Tennant.”

“I liked it.”

“Gibson gave Hamlet an Oedipus Complex.”

“So?”

“So, that’s quite the artistic liberty don’t you think?!”

“Ehh... We both agree it certainly made things more entertaining though.”

“You both agr…” Anathema cuts herself off. Starts again. “Crowley, are you telling me that _you_ had something to do with that infamous Hamlet and Gertrude scene?” Her voice is rising again.

He grins, “Shakespeare owed me.” [1]

“He _owed_ you??” 

Crowley waves it off, “Long time ago. Long story. Short version: Hamlet was shit, no one wanted to see it, Aziraphale asked me to help, one thing lead to another and, ta dah, Old Shakey had a hit on his hands.”

Anathema puts her head between her hands and shakes it, “You’re unbelievable.”

When Anathema looks up again, the books catch her eye. She motions to this month’s selection. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime sits upon a short stack of other YA novels. “Aziraphale mentioned that Adam gifted the bookshop with a bunch of first edition children’s books and that he enjoyed them, so I pulled together some of my favorite books from elementary and middle school.”

Crowley runs his fingers down the titles again, nods.

“Looked into that book you recommended by the way - _Disavowels_ by Cahun? Yeah, it costs $907.99 on Amazon for a _used_ copy in _acceptable_ condition.”

“You can borrow mine. Got a nice note from Claude in it too.”

Anathema’s eyes widen. “That has to be worth thousands of pounds!”

Crowley shrugs, “Be nice to it?”

“Aziraphale won’t mind you loaning it?”

Crowley shrugs again, “It’s not his book; not sure he even knows it exists.”

Her eyes widen again, “Let me get this straight. You have a first edition of a book that is no longer in print. Signed by the author. Whom you knew in real life. And you never told Aziraphale about it?”

Crowley nods tentatively, perhaps seeing where Anathema is going with this.

“I can’t wait to tell him; book chat is going to be so good!” 

**** **** **** ****

The barista comes by only once to ask if they’d like refills. In doing so, she comes to two conclusions. One judging by the remains in the cup, the woman was no longer drinking the same beverage she ordered when she left. Two, no matter how long they sit there, they’ll never need refills. 

Not entirely sure what to do with this information, she goes back to the till to grab herself a scone and call it a day. No one would believe her anyway.

**** **** **** ****

“Oh” Crowley snaps his fingers, having just thought of something, “The planet thing, Saturn and Jupiter, did you see it?”

Anathema shakes her head glumly, “I tried, but I couldn’t see it from our house. We even took a ride out into one of the nearby fields, but the surrounding hills blocked the horizon line.”

“That’s a shame,” Crowley commiserates, “I know you were excited for that.”

“It’s alright; I had actually seen them both in the sky a few nights beforehand. And we still had a nice Solstice. Lit a yule log and took some time to reflect on the coming year; it was a good night.”

“I’m glad.”

“Oh and Newt got me a nice conifer that can be moved outdoors once the ground isn’t frozen.”

“Nice! Be sure to plant it on an overcast day. Dig a hole twice the width of and more shallow than the height of the root ball. And give it lots of water. It’ll grow best in full sun, but a bit of afternoon shade is good. If it starts to brown, a good scolding should shapen it up,” he advises.

Anathema blinks; she forgot she was talking to a literal plant whisperer. She’s not sure he knows her scolding won’t have the same effect as his. “Thanks,” she says simply.

“Course,” he trails off, then, “Oh, is it a Yew or Juniper?”

“Errr…” Anathema shrugs, not ready for the impromptu plant lesson she’s found herself in.

“The easiest way to tell the difference is by the berries,” Crowley explains patiently, more than happy to play the role of botanist and educator for a captive audience. “Juniper berries are hard and bluish purple, but yew berries are red and juicy.”

“And if it has no berries?”

“Normal for this time of year.”

“Oh. Well how can I tell what kind of tree it is without waiting for berry season?”

“Juniper needles grow in whorls of three; yew needles grow in two rows.”

“And you can tell this by looking at them?,” she asks hesitantly.

“With a trained eye you can. Here, I’ll draw you a picture,” he says miracling a pen and paper onto their table.

She puts out a hand to stop him, “How about I just send you a picture later?”

“That works.”

Anathema smiles, thankful both for the helpful advice and for an easy out to Crowley’s possibly endless tree lesson. “I’ll do that. I should actually be heading out though.” 

Crowley nods in agreement and makes to stand. As he gathers up the books, he slides a quick note in Anathema’s direction, “Don’t think you’re off the hook.”

Anathema puts her hands on her hips. “He’s been watching for 6 weeks and he still has over 100 episodes of your last suggestion to get through.”

Crowley gives his patented shit-eating grin and just nudges the paper closer. It’s a url to a Spotify playlist. She eyes it warily, but shoves it in her dress pocket nonetheless and starts moving, still conversing with Crowley as they weave their way to the door. “Fine. And this reminds me, I got a new eyeliner that I’ve been dying to experiment with and I think would look great on you. I’ll bring it round next time yeah?”

Crowley nods in agreement and the two disappear into the London air.

FEBRUARY

It starts with a phone call - Hi this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do; do it with style - or, rather, it starts with a voicemail: “Hey Crowley, this is Anathema. Going to have to cancel for tomorrow morning. Would love to catch up though - shut up Newt! - sorry, so let me know if you’re free another day to grab coffee. Or drinks! Whatever. Call me.”

The voice message is followed up by a series of text messages later that evening.

::Anathema:: Yo, Crowley, check your voicemail. 

::Anathema:: Gotta cancel for tomorrow and want to make sure you don’t show up. 

::Anathema:: Might serve you right after that playlist though.

::Anathema:: Newt will not stop singing “The Thong Song”. You owe me at least 6 drinks.

3 hours later Crowley responds simply with an emoji, the snake emoji to be precise  
:Crowley:: 🐍.

Anathema responds with a selfie of her flipping the bird which causes Crowley to cackle, but the demon takes pity on her. 

::Crowley:: You free tonight? I could use a drink.

Anathema accepts the offer and promises to meet up with him around 8. 

**** **** **** **** ****

When Anathema walks into the bar, she makes a beeline for Crowley and before she’s even taken off her coat, she puts her finger in his face, “I cannot believe you gave him a playlist of the most annoying songs ever. You. are not. Our friend.”

Crowley laughs unabashedly.

“No, no no. this is not a laughing matter. We have BOTH had Barbie Girl stuck in our heads for DAYS. And Newton will NOT stop singing Dragostea Din Tei.”

“Newton, huh? That bad.”

“You have no idea,” she shakes her head, and finally takes a seat next to him. “I’ve been feeling very murderous lately.” 

“Normally I’d be all for it, but considering it’s Newt and the angel has a soft spot for him, best not.”

She sighs, “Yeah. Fortunately for Newt, I have a soft spot for him too. YOU on the other hand…”, she trails off as the bartender makes his way over. “I’ll have a pint of Maisel’s; he’ll have something fancy.”

“A glass of merlot,” Crowley interjects.

The bartender nods, “And do you want to start a tab?”

“Oh yes,” Anathema says immediately, “he’s paying.”

The bartender turns to Crowley for confirmation and sees the demon already sliding his black credit card towards him. “Thanks.” he says and disappears to fill their order.

“See,” says Crowley. “Everything is awesome.” He half-sings the last part.

Anathema smacks him in the arm, “Don’t start.”

“Everything is cool when you’re part of a team.”

“Do you sing this to Aziraphale when you’re trying to get him in on one of your harebrained plans?”

“I should.’

“Yeah, let’s see how that goes for you.”

The bartender returns and places their drinks in front of them. Crowley wrinkles his nose at Anathema’s beer. “What did you order?” he asks.

“It’s beer.”

He gives a fake shudder. 

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” She takes a drink. “It’s pretty light, you want a sip?” She offers him her glass. 

He vehemently shakes his head no and takes a sip of his wine instead.

“Suit yourself. I don’t get how you can drink those dark wines. They’re so heavy and bitter.”

Crowley shrugs, “Bitter like my soul.”

She shakes her head, she’s heard this rant before about coffee. “Well this has,” she checks the menu, “hints of banana and clove. So not sure what that says about my soul.”

“Probably that it’s full of potassium.”

She laughs, “or that i’m sweet, but spicy enough to keep it interesting.”

“You think so highly of yourself,” he jokes.

“Wait, what’s yours say?” she checks the menu again, “Rich and sweet. Well, the first half fits.”

“Ha ha.” he deadpans, and sticks out his tongue. “Oh gross.”

“What?”

“I can taste your beer when I do that.”

“A whole bar full of people and drinks, and it’s MY beer that makes the air taste bad?” she counters.”I find that hard to believe.”

“Doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s true.”

“Is not. Here. Taste it. Confirm.” She slides her glass to him and watches him take a small sip. 

“Definitely the source of all things un-tasty in the air,” he confirms.

“You’re impossible.” 

He grins wider. “When you finish that swill we’ll get you a real drink.”

The playful banter continues between them as they move on from topic to topic until they’re both in need of a refill. They eye each other and the menu warily. “How do you feel about white wine?” Anathema asks.

“Better than the swill you’re drinking now, but not much else I can say for it.”

“Hmmm… And when was the last time you tried it?”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, thinks. 

“Right,”she says. “Not recently enough. You’re gonna try some white wine.”

He groans, “Do I have to?”

“A cultured being such as yourself should know about all types of wine.”

“Fine.” He gives in. “But you have to sample the reds as well.”

“Fine.”

She waves the bartender over and asks for a glass of the Il Pallone Pinot Grigio and the La Sauterelle Picpoul de Pinot, and adds a glass of cider while she’s at it. Crowley orders a glass of the house red and a glass of shiraz. The bartender doesn’t question their double order and Anathema wonders if Crowley had something to do with it.

Not even thirty minutes later the witch and demon have each drank from two glasses of white and two glasses of red and sampled the cider. Neither yet convinced that the other wines are valid, sees them waiving down the bartender to ask for a few more glasses of various wines “if you don’t mind,” adds Crowley this time confirming Anathema’s earlier suspicion, and the bartender finds that he really doesn’t.

Another two hours later, they’re really quite sloshed - neither really sure how much wine they’ve personally consumed, but the empty glasses speak for themselves. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Anathema says gesturing at the glass Crowley just put down. 

He frowns at it. “Not sure.”

“What?”

“Not sure what was in that one,” he clarifies. “But I think I liked it?” he offers.

She leans forward to get a better look at the wine glass, and has to put a hand out for balance. “Might have to refill to find out.”

He squints at the glass for a moment, and then looks at Anathema, “I can’t refill it if I don’t know what was in it.”

“Oh,” she says and pouts.

“I can fill it with whiskey?” he offers instead. “You _do_ like whiskey don’t you?”

Anathema nods enthusiastically. “Love whiskey.”

“Knew you had good taste,” the demon nods. He concentrates for a moment and two of the previously empty wine glasses fill once more with amber liquid. He takes one for himself and hands the other to her. “Cheers.”

She takes a small sip. “Do they even have this on the menu?”

“What menu?” Crowley asks. 

She shakes her head and puts her glass down. “Nevermind. This is classy by the way,” she says, indicating the wine glasses with her head, “drinking whiskey from wine glasses.”

“Aziraphale would disapprove.”

“Would he?” she asks genuinely curious.

He nods solemnly. “He likes everything in the right glass. Whiskey in the tumblers. Water in the water glasses. Coffee in the coffee mugs. Tea in the.. In the … in the whatchacallits? Tea things.” 

“Tea cups.”

“Tea cups! Right. Tea in the tea cups.”

“Well Aziraphale does like his tea. Newt too. So many rules with tea though,” Anathema laments.

“Tea has rules?” asks Crowley.

“Oh yes, you’re all quite ridiculous with your tea. Tea bag first. Then water. Then sugar. Then milk. Heaven help you if you mix up the order. And only milk in certain kinds of teas. And the water must come from a kettle. Why can’t it come from a microwave? No one knows, but every British person in a 20 mile radius will murder you if they hear about you committing such a sin.”

He opens his mouth to interject, but she cuts him off, “Go ahead Crowley, explain it to me, really. Why does it matter _how_ the water reaches 85 degrees - kettle or microwave?”

If he wasn’t multiple glasses of wine in, Crowley might have a decent explanation, but as it stands he doesn’t. She doesn’t give him much time to provide a rebuttal anyway before she’s moved on to her next complaint, “and also your obsession with milk is ridiculous.”

“MY obsession?” Crowley splutters. 

“Why you gotta put milk in tea at all?”

“I don’t.” he states.

“You do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do too! I’ve watched Aziraphale make it for you.”

“That’s cause Aziraphale likes milky tea.”

She crosses her arms, “You’re telling me Aziraphale knowingly makes tea you hate because he wants yours to be the same as his.”

Crowley crosses his arms in response. “No.”

“So you do like milky tea.”

He’s silent.

“I knew it!”

“Fine. You’re right. I like milky tea. But I _also_ enjoy black tea.”

“Cause you gotta maintain your reputation.”

“No, I like it.”

“Sure.”

“I do.”

“Fine.”

“Anathema.”

“Crowley.”

They’ve reached a stalemate and neither is willing to back down. Anathema glares at Crowley, hoping he’ll admit to it, but he just glares right back until she cracks first and starts laughing. She throws her hands up in the air. “Fine, fine, don’t admit it. I know I’m right.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

She ignores him and waves the bartender over again. The whiskey is delicious, but strong, and she needs to balance it with a glass of water if she wants to be able to hang with Crowley. He quickly obliges. 

Anathema turns to Crowley with a glint in her eyes.

“What.”

“I have an idea!”

“I’m cautiously intrigued.”

She rummages in her purse and pulls out the eyeliner she’d mentioned last time. “I remembered, and I brought it!” she squeals excitedly.

Crowley’s face lights up for a moment, but he tries to tamper down his excitement before Anathema notices. It doesn’t work. “Take your glasses off so I can work.”

He complies without complaint. 

She holds her hands as steady as possible and gives him simple winged eyeliner. She holds his face in her hands and turns it a bit, bringing the liner back to make a few edits. She accidentally touches it to his temple. “Whoopsie.” She licks a finger and wipes it off.

“Oh ick, gross, did you just lick me?” he bats her hands away. 

“Oh, you’re fine,” she insists and moves back in to finish the job. She nods to herself, pleased with her work, “looks good.”

Crowley snaps a mirror into existence so he can check it out for himself. He considers his reflection for a moment and snaps again, this time summoning up a burgundy red lipstick. He starts to put it on, but she reaches for it, “let me help you,” she insists. He acquiesces. 

She smudges a bit, but wipes it off with her thumb, sans spit this time. Then hands the lipstick and eyeliner to Crowley. “My turn.” 

He’s thrilled with the prospect and quickly grabs onto both, adding first lipstick and then eyeliner for Anathema. Finished, he leans back to admire his work. “All set.”

She grabs up his mirror, squints in an attempt get her image to focus, and declares it perfect. “We make a good team.” 

“The best,” he concurs. 

“I bet we’d make a good team at other things too.”

“Like what?”

“Book club.”

“Book clubs don’t have teams. And you’re book woman, witch... Book girl. Whatever. Point is, I don’t read.”

“Mmm… Herbs.”

“Herbs don’t have teams either,” he dismisses. “Chess?”

“I don’t know how to play.”

“I could teach you,” he offers. 

She scrunches up her nose.

“Or not,” he laughs. 

“Ummmm….” she trails off.

“Ducks.”

“Ducks?” asks Anathema incredulously. “Ducks?”

He shrugs, “I like ducks,” he says seriously.

She laughs, “Alright. Team ducks.”

They sit in silence for a moment, before Anathema lights up. “I know!”

“What?”

“Preventing the apocalypse.”

He shoots her finger guns. “Team work.”

“Teamwork,” she echoes. Then, “Well, teammate, I don’t know about you, but it is after 1 in the morning and I should probably start figuring out how I’m getting home.”

Crowley nods, “I can call Aziraphale,” he offers and pulls out his phone. It rings three times before picking up. “Angel!” he yells, drawing the attention of the patrons around him, “How are you?”

Anathema can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but watches as his face first lights up as Aziraphale answers, turn red, and then turn a bit crestfallen as he whispers, “but that’s no _fun,_ angel.”, then he sighs and hangs up. 

She nudges him, “what’s up?”

“He, uh,” Crowley scratches the back of his neck, and looks away embarrassed, “he doesn’t have the car. I do.”

“Oh.”

“And he said I should just sober up and drive us home myself.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t want to,” she guesses.

“No. Not really. Having fun.”

“Then let’s have fun!” she insists. “There are plenty of other people who can drive.” She waves the bartender over a final time. “What do you want?” she asks her companion.

Thrilled to not be stuck driving, Crowley instantly perks up, “Johnny Walker Gold. Neat.” 

The bartender turns to Anathema, “Bramble spritz, please, and the bill when you can.” 

Nursing their new drinks they debate about who to call next. Newt is the obvious answer of course, but Anathema reckons he’s definitely asleep by now. They run through a short list of options before settling, somehow, on Shadwell. 

Crowley dials and puts him on speakerphone.

“Hullo?” a gruff voice mumbles from the other end of the line.

“Sarge! You’re awake!” Crowley celebrates.

There’s a moment of fumbling on the other end of the phone while Shadwell presumably sits up in bed, doublechecks who’s called him, and works up to a response. “The world better not be ending again, Mister. Actually, it better be, cause that’s the only reason you should be calling me at 1 o’clock in the bloody morning!”

The two make eye contact, and it’s Anathema who answers. “Actually Mr. Shadwell, we were just hopping you could give us a ride?” she asks sweetly, slurring her words just a bit.

“A ride? A ride??,” he asks incredulously. Then, louder than anyone has any right to be at this time of the morning comes a slew of some of the most inventive curse words either Crowley or Anathema has ever heard. Anathema reaches over quickly and hangs up the phone. 

“That went well.”

“Newt?”

“Newt.”

When they do get a hold of Newt - it takes three attempts since he is asleep as Anathema suspected - he’s cranky but amenable. “You do realize it’s after 1, yeah?” 

They confirm that yes they do know what time it is, and no, no one else can pick them up at the moment, and Newt sighs and says he’ll be there shortly. 

By the time he arrives, the pair have finished off their drinks, paid and tipped the bartender, and started debating whether or not men actually gossip more than women despite what society believes. He ushers the drunk and stumbling duo rather ungracefully to Dick Turpin. Once seated in the back, their friendly debate continues, and rather than insert himself in their argument (he’s having trouble determining who’s arguing which side as it stands), he just agrees with whichever of them asks as this seems to satisfy them.

“Crowley’s flat or the bookshop?” he interrupts them. 

“What?” asks Anathema, trying to process the question.

“Am I taking us back to Crowley’s flat? Or Aziraphale’s bookshop.”

“Aziraphale’s,” says Crowley immediately. 

Newt nods his head. “You think he’ll mind if we crash there?”

Crowley blinks, taking in the needs of his human companions for a minute. “Uh, yeah, sure, not a problem.”

When they pull up outside, Newt kills the engine and gets out of the car. Realizing they haven’t followed his lead, he turns back and opens the door. “You coming?” 

“Yes!” Shouts Anathema as she shoves Crowley out before her. Under the spotlights, she catches sight of Crowley’s makeup. “Oooo! Newt! Newt! Look! Isn’t Crowley beautiful!!”

Newt turns around to see what Anathema is referring to. He sees the smudged lip and attempt at a cat eye and smirks. If only Crowley knew what he looked like; he’d be mortified. “You did his makeup.” He confirms.

“I did! And he’s very pretty. Tell him he’s pretty Newt.”

“You’re very pretty Crowley,” he says dutifully. Crowley beams at him and Anathema gives him a sloppy kiss.

Newt rolls his eyes and leads the two miscreants over to the bookshop. Thankfully it’s unlocked.

“Hey angel we’re home!” yells Crowley, closing the door behind them.

“Oh good… We?” Aziraphale clarifies, coming around the corner to greet them.

“We! Newt and Anathema are going to stay in the guestroom.”

“The guest room?’ Aziraphale asks, momentarily confused.

Crowley gestures down the hallway, “Bit far for them to drive back to Tadfield at this hour, so I said they could crash. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Course not,” the angel blusters, “Make yourselves at home.” He gestures down the hallway while raising an eyebrow at the demon.

Newt turns down the hallway where Aziraphale indicated and pulls Anathema along behind him. “Thank you. Night.” 

Before Newt pulls her out of sight, Anathema turns around a final time, “Isn’t Crowley pretty Aziraphale? I did his makeup!”

Aziraphale turns back to Crowley and smiles, “Yes, I see that.” Turning back to Newt he adds, “There's water and Advil next to the bed if you need it.”

Newt nods his thanks and the two disappear into the guestroom.

Anathema has been to the bookshop multiple times and if she wasn’t so drunk would remember there isn’t a guest room. Or, _wasn’t_ a guest room at any rate because as they turn the corner, there is in fact a room made up for them. 

The guest room, which hasn’t shared multiple glasses of wine with Crowley, _is_ in fact surprised to find itself in the bookshop as it distinctly remembers being in a flat across town moments before. The tartan comforter is an upgrade though.

Their guests tucked into bed, Aziraphale turns to Crowley. “You made Newt pick you up, dear?”

“Didn’t want to drive drunk.”

“I appreciate that, but you could have sobered up you know.”

“Didn’t want to. No fun.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Do you want to sober up _now_?”

“No,” Crowley pouts.

The angel rolls his eyes. “Fine. Be stubborn. At least drink water then. Cause if you wake up with a hangover you’re going to be miserable.”

Taking Aziraphale’s words to heart he miracles up himself a glass of water and downs it, and then stretches out on the couch. Azriaphale reheats a cup of cocoa and joins him. Crowley rolls over to better see him. “Did you know men gossip more than women, angel?”

**** **** **** **** ****

When Anathema wakes up the next morning there’s a pile of three books on the bedside table next to a new glass of water. She reads over the titles - _The Testaments, Milk and Honey_ , and _Red, White, and Royal Blue_ , and picks up the note card on top. The message is in Aziraphale’s elegant scrawl. She reads it once, twice. The message is short, but it takes a moment to sink in. “I have been in a bookstore in the last decade, my dear”.

Anathema laughs. She can’t wait to tell Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Crowley reminds Aziraphale about it as often as possible
> 
> Drink Menu is based on the Dog and the Duck in SoHo (Crowley would want to go there because of the name) https://www.nicholsonspubs.co.uk/restaurants/london/thedogandducksoholondon/drinks

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? Are they already dating and Crowley missed the memo? Can't wait to share the next (and final) installment with more beautiful art from Shadow0Kana. 
> 
> We're also collaborating on a second fic that'll start posting next week, so stay tuned for that!


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